The Blood of a Little Dead Boy
by The Moon on a String
Summary: Jack Frost wasn't a normal child. He really should have died all those years ago. He doesn't like being the dead boy that is frozen and bleeds the wrong colour and is just so different wrong everyone else. So the Nightmare King will remind him that he isn't the only one that is different, lie to keep the child with him and do anything to see him smile.


**Author's Notes:** I'm not sure where this came from... It's strange... that's all I have to say

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, nothing, nothing

**Rating:** T for violence and slight gore (Just blood)

**Summary:** Jack Frost wasn't a normal child. He really should have died all those years ago. He doesn't like being the dead boy that is frozen and bleeds the wrong colour and is just so different wrong everyone else. So the Nightmare King will remind him that he isn't the only one that is different, lie to keep the child with him and do anything to see him smile

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**The Blood of a Little Dead Boy**

They didn't want him there. The Nightmares. There was something different about him. He was child; it wasn't right for a child to be in the Bogeyman's fortress of eternal darkness and dreadful monsters. It just wasn't normal. But he wasn't any child.

He was a dead child. Just a little dead boy with extraordinary winter powers.

Though he was still breathing, the breaths were slow and almost unnecessary. His heart also beat slow and steady though it had stopped many years ago. And it should have never have started again. Maybe, in another life, he would have just sunk to the bottom of the lake and never opened his eyes again. A child shouldn't have to wake up all alone and live a whole new life. It just wasn't fair, whatever the Man in the Moon intentions were. Jackson Overland Frost should have died that day. The Nightmares will make sure wished that he did.

The reason they loathed the little winter spirit so very much was because he stole _their_ master from them. The Nightmare King used to devote all of his time into perfecting his precious Nightmares. He wanted them to be strong. But after his defeat, he didn't seem as dead set on making them more powerful. Yes, they were in intentions but he became distracted. By the frozen child. He was simply fascinated by the dead boy and the Nightmares just couldn't understand why. Did their master not love them anymore? Why did the boy continue to visit?

It was clear their master didn't love the child. At least, not at first. It seemed to be a game that the Nightmares just weren't allowed to join in on. Oh, how they wanted to help torment the winter spirit. To plague him with awful, unthinkable bad dreams. To have the Fearlings take his soul over. How fun it would be to join in on the beatings, the fights. He was the Guardian of Fun, right? Well, that was what he used to be at least.

Then the boy was staying permanently. He hardly left the Nightmare King's sight. They were just so involved with each other; almost always touching in some way. It sickened the horses as they were forced to watch their master fall in _love_ with the little dead boy. The Bogeyman wasn't supposed to love. So why was this child so different?

They made him unwanted at all times. Almost managing to scare him away on a few occasions. How enraged their master would be when that happened. He would shriek at them, telling them to never touch his _little snowflake_. His precious child. After that, he would hold the winter being closer and murmur soothing words to calm him. He seemed to do that a lot. The child was so traumatised and was easily sent into fits of hysteria or relentless sobbing. Was that what drew their master to him? This child was also haunted with a tragic fate in his former life leading to an unbearable loneliness as a spirit. That made them so similar.

Well, it didn't matter. The Nightmares didn't like the boy. They wanted to watch blood spill from his pale body. If he could even bleed. They were going to find out. Yes, they wanted to the little dead boy to actually _die_.

It was a chilly day and Jack had spent so long perfecting it. Frost on every window, bodies of water frozen flat and smooth to skate on, icicles hanging down from the branches of leafless trees. He admired the towns as snow fell softly. Each one a masterpiece. Grinning to himself, he darted away, heading back to his home. His home. He waited three centuries to have a proper place to stay. A safe place to sleep.

It was so beautifully ironic that the safe place he called home was the King of Nightmare's lair. Each day, he would return to this dreary fortress, to Pitch's dark but warm arms and feel so safe. It sparked something inside him and made him feel _alive_. So wanted, so needed.

Well, the truth was he was only welcome by all in the Bogeyman's lair. The Nightmares had made it clear very long ago that _they _didn't want him there. It was their home, their darkness, their master. They didn't want to share. It did make Jack feel a little guilty. He had been the enemy and it was understandable that they despised him. He could easily freeze them, destroy them. And he still did some times, when they were chasing him.

They wanted to hurt him. To kill him if it were possible. Was it possible? He didn't want to take any chances.

The Fearlings were just curious about him. He wasn't alive but he wasn't one of them. He wasn't a living, warm human that they all used to be. The curled around his body questionably, as if asking what he was. He'd slink away from them. They terrified him. He heard what they could do. They could posses him and turn him into one of them. He didn't want that. They all seemed so mindless. They couldn't do anything but wander through the darkness and attack poor, innocent children. Almost as if they couldn't help it. They would watch him and wonder, wonder if he would one day become the Fearling Prince. They so hoped he would; they quite liked that little dead boy.

Jack dived down into the gaping hole in the middle of a forgotten forest. The sun was setting fast. He knew the Nightmares still ventured out into the night, collecting any fear they could. It was strange how Pitch could somehow still manage to scare humans even when they didn't directly believe in him. Jack was almost envious. He knew that fear worked better to gain believers. Pitch had tricked him into trying it when he was still a Guardian. And it felt good but it didn't last long. They soon forgot about that little dead boy they'd seen. Passing it off as an apparition or mind trick. He wasn't real, just a phantom that nobody believed in. It still killed him inside but the pain had numbed noticeably since he had been with Pitch.

He reached the vast, central area in the lair. From where he was standing – on a pathway that lead to the first set of descending stairs – he could see the Globe shining brightly. He'd half expected to find the Bogeyman there. He would spend hours stalking around the Globe, watching, and waiting, for what Jack wasn't sure. But he wasn't. The Fearlings came to greet him as they normally did; wrapping around his body like a blanket. He tried to shake them off, biting his lip. Almost reluctantly, they slipped away, off to see if their master was coming to greet the child. Jack took a few more steps before suddenly stopping.

The Nightmares had sauntered out of the dark to block his path. Rolling his eyes, he called for a gust of wind to pick him up and carry him _over_ the horses. Unlike the Fearlings, they were very much tangible and didn't look as if they were moving any time soon. His feet easily lifted off the ground and he leap up and past them. Snorting angrily, they followed. The monsters of sand swarmed around him, ready to attack. The winter spirit just had to die! They did not want him here.

The teen gasped and tried to fly past them. Gripping his weapon tightly, he threw a huge surge of ice forward, creating a frosty hole right through one of the horses. It disintegrated into nothing but black sand that faded into the dim air. Jack sped into the open space and grabbed onto one of the few remaining cages that were suspended above the stone pathways and staircases. The Nightmares came at him again. He groaned, knowing Pitch would be so mad at him for doing this. He blasted more ice and frost at them, hoping to scare them off. Silly, he knew, they were the essence of fear. _They_ were the ones that scared _him_.

It happened so quickly, it was almost surreal. Three Nightmares shot up to the cage, rocking it back and forth. One ran right into him and he lost his grip. Another slammed into his side and his staff slipped from his hands.

He was falling. The little dead boy was falling and no one was there to catch him.

Jack flailed his arms in a pathetic attempt to steady himself as he dropped down. Inevitable pain was coming, he just knew it. Squeezing his eyes shut, held his breath.

Whatever he hit, it was very hard and strong. And sharp. A shocked yelp left his lips as his head had connected with the stone, taking most of the blow. But then the rest of his body crashed down and he rolled to the side. Opening his eyes, he saw black spots covering his vision. He gritted his teeth and slumped back to the ground. Above him, he heard the Nightmares snorting, sounding furious. How had he survived?

It would have killed a normal boy.

But he wasn't normal. He was already dead. Just a little dead boy who was frozen right down to his bones. A dead little boy whose body was much strong than it seemed. He wasn't going to break so easily.

"Jack?"

As soon as the Nightmares heard their master, they vanished. Jack however tried to lift his head to the voice. It was low and seductive as usual but tinted with concern.

"Jack, are you alright?"

The teen groaned, somehow sitting up despite the protest of his body and the throbbing in the back of his head. "I'm fine." He slurred.

The Fearlings glided down to watch him. _Poor little dead boy_, they whispered among themselves, _falls like that should kill children_.

Pitch quickly swept down and slipped his hands under Jack's arms and hoisted him up. The Fearlings slid away, sensing the boy's fear. They did not want to make their future Fearling Prince feel even worse than he already did. "My poor little child." The Bogeyman tilted Jack's chin up. "What happened?"

"Your Nightmares." Jack mumbled, rubbing at his eyes sleepily.

A ferocious snarled ripped from the older man's throat. It made Jack jumped back in fear. What a terrifying sound. Pitch frowned as he watched Jack stagger backwards. "I didn't mean to startle you, snowflake." He drew Jack closer to him, placing a hand on the back of his little lover's head.

Suddenly, he jerked back in shock. Jack met his gaze questionably. Slowly, he brought his hand up to finger the back of his head, his eyes still on Pitch's. The Nightmare King looked stunned, as if he were unsure on how to react, and deeply concerned. Jack realised his hair was matt and sticky. He tried to card his fingers through it but it stung too much. That's when he felt it. Blood. Seeping out from the back of his head, freezing to his scalp and hair. It didn't hurt nearly as much anymore, their pain numbed quickly. It felt strange to feel blood falling out of his head. He drew his fingers back to stare at them. The colour was so weak, almost tinged blue. It wasn't the colour of a human's blood. It was the colour of a little dead boy's blood.

He hadn't bled much before. His skin looked thin and transparent but it was quite tough. It had to be to survive the bitter cold he was so used to. Though it did bruise quite easily and they were more visible since he was so pale. But he wasn't used to bleeding. Not intense bleeding anyway. Pitch was the really the only one that actually made him bleed though it wasn't always with malice. It was by his delicious love bites, teeth grazing his neck and breaking the skin. Jack definitely didn't mind them – they felt good most of the time. He claimed Jack's blood tasted nice – like snow but somehow sweeter – and it made the child wonder if Pitch just enjoyed the taste of fresh blood. If he could even call his blood fresh.

Frowning, he reached back to touch the wound again. It was healing fast, of course, but more blood oozed onto his fingers. Pitch was watching Jack with intense curiosity. The child seemed to be fascinated by his own blood. Strange. Most children were frightened of seeing blood on the _outside_ of their body. They would scream and run to their mothers, pleading for them to make it stop. But Jack, he couldn't seem to stop touching the injury, marveling at the blood flowing out. His eyes darted up to Pitch's, filled with wonder. "How is it bleeding so much?"

"Head wounds bleed more than normal." Pitch replied, almost casually.

"Oh."

"Yes, now turn around so I can see how bad it is." The older man ordered.

Jack turned to the side, a little apprehensive. Pitch sensed Jack's fear, his worry that Pitch wanted to taste his blood at that moment. Drain his body entirely. Silly little child; he'd never do that. Although there was very few occasions he actually broke Jack's beautiful skin to cause pain, it still had happened before. Maybe when his nails were digging into him or when his hits split the teen's lip. But he never forcefully cut Jack, no. He didn't want the child to scar. Though scars rarely showed up on immortals, he wanted to be safe. The Bogeyman didn't leave physical scars. Emotional mental scars were so much more interesting, so much more _amusing. _Of course, that was not the point at this moment. Besides, this little dead boy was already scarred enough.

He gingerly pinched Jack's jaw in his long fingers and twisted his head further to the side. Jack's hair, that was as soft as snow and just as light, was clumped together and knotty. Soaked with the vital fluid leaking from the abrasion. Pitch just couldn't work out the colour. It seemed to be claret or maybe more burgundy but it was hard to tell but was just freezing to Jack's skin and hair. Something about it didn't look right; it was too blue, too purple? Too weak in hue to classify what colour it was. Pitch was idly reminded of Jack's adorable blush. It wasn't a scarlet red that human's faces flushed with. It was icy; almost blue but that may have been because of Jack's sallow, pallid tinted skin. So washed out and just so _dead looking_. So unnatural, working in perfect contrast to Jack's bright, lively eyes. It was what attracted him to the frozen teen.

Because everything about Jack Frost – besides those icy eyes – screamed death. Lifeless yet so vigorous at the same time. His blood, so unnaturally coloured and so peculiarly cold. His skin, almost translucent and such a sickly white. The dark circles under his eyes that not many people actually noticed. But they were there, making the child look gaunter at times. His colourless hair that strangely didn't make him look any older. His tiny, frail body that was so thin yet so lanky. Jack was quite tall but to the Bogeyman, he was just so _little, _so fragile. Oh, how easy it would to break him. Jack was his child, his baby, almost. In appearance at least. A child that had died many, many years ago. On the inside, he was an arrogant, rude, mischievous trouble maker that certainly didn't deserve the wintry powers he'd been bestowed with. Just like his eyes, his personality was so unlike his appearance. It was if his eyes were the mirror to his soul as many suggest was the case when it came to humans.

Pitch blinked, focusing on the injury. This dead child, _his_ child, was still bleeding though it had slowed down immensely. He leaned back, turning Jack's body forward again. "It should be fine. It's healing fast, of course."

Jack nodded, reaching back to capture the last drops of blood on his fingers. The older man snatched his hand around Jack's wrist and pulled it away from his head. "Stop touching it." He scolded.

"Okay." He stared down at the frosted blood that had clotted to his fingers. His eyes flicked up to Pitch and back down several times. Cocking his head to the side, he studied the blood on his fingers at every angle he could manage. Something about it was so wrong. So different and it broke his heart further. Why couldn't he be normal? Why did he have to be a strange little dead boy who was frozen and cold and had blood that didn't look right? Why was his blood was just so different from everyone else's?

"What's wrong, pet?" The Bogeyman sensed Jack's distraught and didn't like it.

"My blood isn't normal." Jack whispered.

Pitch raised a brow. "Why does it matter?"

Jack's nose scrunched up slightly. "Why is it not normal?"

"Because you are not normal."

The child's eyes shone with sad tears and he glanced up at his older lover in sorrow. "I wish I were."

"But why?" Pitch asked. "Why would you want to be normal?"

"So I wouldn't be so different."

That made Pitch visibly cringe. "Different isn't bad-,"

"Yes, it is!" Jack cried. "Don't tell me it's not. I'm different. Just a little dead boy no one can even see! It's wrong; I'm wrong!" His voice dropped down to a shaky whisper. "Even my _blood _is wrong."

Pitch honestly didn't know what to say. It actually _hurt_ him inside to see the teen wish he were normal. He wished he were like everyone just so he didn't feel as alone. The Nightmare King growled lowly. There was nothing wrong with Jack. He was such a beautiful, unique snowflake that everyone should see and love. But of course, humans can't see something they don't believe in. It was so foolish. Jack wasn't the one that was wrong, _they _were. His poor little child was so convinced there was something wrong with him. Just because he was a little dead boy who no one could see. Well, Pitch could see him and what he saw was a fragile, nearly broken, scared and confused child that should have died three hundred years ago. But he was selfish enough to be thankful that Jack was turned into a spirit that day he drowned. He had someone who was like him.

And for that, Pitch would never forgive the Man in the Moon.

No one, especially not this kind and caring boy, deserved to be like the Bogeyman. Well, he supposed he himself _did_ deserve it. He had done some awful things – some he certainly didn't regret and some he almost did. Almost. But not quite. And that's why he was banished to an eternity of darkness and despair. There was a plus side; because he was a terrible, terrible person, he dragged Jack down to his level and he would never let him go. Perpetuity with Jack Frost. It sounded so very wonderful and delicious and tragic and mysterious and simply enthralling. He would spend forever with his fascinating little dead boy and it what he most definitely didn't regret though it was by far the wickedest thing he had ever done.

How could he prove to Jack that it simply didn't matter his blood looked liked? Unless... he showed Jack his own blood. Just to remind him that his was different too.

Pitch swiftly dragged a sharp nail across the palm of his hand. Jack gasped. "What are you-," he trailed off when he saw the blood trickle out the cut and start to pool in his hand.

Black. That's right. Pitch's blood was black. It didn't really look like a liquid either. It looked as if it were what his Fearlings were made from. Sickly and foul. "I've seen your blood, remember?" But Jack couldn't tear his gaze from the cut though it had already healed. The blood seeped away into the still air.

Pitch absentmindedly held his side where a faint, barely there scar lay. It was the only time Jack had seen him bleed. "Yes, North actually has quite acute aim." He scowled.

Jack giggled softly. "I think he was aiming for your heart."

"He can't have been. I was holding you to my chest."

"That's right. I was your shield." Jack said wryly.

"May I remind you that I was rescuing you from the clutches of the overprotective Guardians?" Pitch pointed out.

"And why was I there in the first place? Oh, yeah, because you beat me within an inch of my life."

"You didn't seem to mind once I kidnapped you back."

They stared at each other for a short moment before Jack let out peals of laughter. Pitch wasn't sure why but he joined in. Some of their conversations got so ridiculous. It did make him want to laugh and smile. He smiled because Jack smiled. His silly little snowflake was the only one that brought this side out of him. The side that was long since forgotten when he became Pitch Black. It didn't make it any lighter, didn't make the world seem less dreary but for that one moment, it made Pitch almost wish they were alive – really and truly alive.

But they weren't. They were only a dead little boy and a just as dead man turned monster who both bleed the wrong colour.

"We are different but it is not bad, Jack."

"It's wrong."

"And what is so bad about it being wrong?" Pitch asked with a wicked and twisted smile. "I like being wrong. It is so much better than being good, being right."

It was a terrible lie. It destroyed Pitch, sent him to his ruining. He was nothing but a monster with a wretched heart and a broken, unfixable soul and the only light in his miserable life was a little dead boy. But it was better than nothing. So he'd lie to keep the child with him, convince him that there was no better. He knew it was immoral – evil – of him to do so but he didn't have a choice. He wasn't going to let Jack leave him. Ever.

"Is it?"

"Trust me; it's worth it in the end." The Nightmare King lied again. "It will all be okay."

And all Jack could do was nod numbly and blindly believe him.

"How is your head?"

The child rubbed at his messy, bloodied hair. "Nearly healed." He said proudly.

Pitch smiled. "Good. Now, why don't we go find darling little Nightmares so I can punish them for what they did?" When Jack bit his lip, Pitch placed a comforting arm around his shoulder. "Don't worry, precious child, I won't let them touch you."

He used his other hand to grab Jack's wrist. His hand was still covered in the icy, strange coloured blood. He wiped at the palm with his thumb. It didn't do much so instead, he held it tightly. "Shall we?"

"Okay, Daddy."

Pitch nodded, ignoring the infuriating pet name, and tugged his frosted lover along. The Fearlings danced around them, creeping along and twisting around the two lovers' bodies. One had actually retrieved Jack's staff for him. He warily took it and offered a small, tentative smile. _Such a pretty little dead boy_, they whispered, _what a fine Fearling Prince he'd make_.

Unfortunately for them, that would never actually happen. The Bogeyman wouldn't bequeath such a terrible fate on his darling pet. No, never. He wanted his little dead boy smiling and laughing and crying and_ living_. Well, as much as a dead child could actually live. And even though he didn't have his family or the Guardians or believers that didn't fear him or anything good at all, Jack did still smile and laugh. He had almost nothing. Almost nothing. But the King of Nightmares held him every night and kissed away his tears and loved him very much, making it better. Not okay, or good, but bearable. He was quite lucky, really. Never had there been two spirits so perfect for each other – so lonely and tormented and lost and different and that's what made them so alike. Their passion and love and hatred for one another was strong and thick and red – unlike their blood. It's what kept them going.

Jack was nothing but a little dead boy but he was the little dead boy who belonged to the King of Nightmares and at that moment, just the thought of that made everything alright as they walked along the stone pathway that was beginning to slant upwards.

_Such a lucky child that pretty little dead boy is_, the Fearlings sung in the dead of the night as the followed along Pitch and Jack, _with his winter powers and the love of our master_. How right they were.

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**Author's Notes:** Again, I don't have much to say expect reviews are appreciated. I hope you enjoyed. Sorry if this story offended any dead people.


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